


Awakening

by lunacosas



Series: What sharing a bed leads to [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (if you squint), Awkward Boners, Awkward Tension, Bathing/Washing, Boners, Canon Universe, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Nudity, Pining, Praise Kink, Repressed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Scents & Smells, Shaving, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27553228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunacosas/pseuds/lunacosas
Summary: Jaskier wakes to the realisation that he rubbed off on Geralt in his sleep. Things get very awkward before they get better.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What sharing a bed leads to [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015182
Comments: 41
Kudos: 468





	Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone who commented on [The one in which a sleeping bard gets off on humping a wakeful witcher](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27343201), your comments are still making my day thank you all so much! They're the reason I gave this next fic a go. Now, I can't promise quality, but there's content at least? Maybe?
> 
> Well, I had fun anyway, even while I was stressing over silly details like when the word tantalising came into usage, how likely it was for porcelain to be around, what about flannel, why is Jaskier like that, why is Geralt like that?? I really hope it's an entertaining read at least (and I know it's historic fantasy so some details don't matter too much, I can only apologise for the way I've characterised them but it made sense in my mind at the time).
> 
> Also, it's nearly 5am where I am, and nearly 6am where my wonderful cheer-reader lives, so a shoutout to the lovely Kali for keeping me company through this! (And for the title and summary...)

There are far worse ways to wake. Even before he fully regains consciousness, Jaskier knows he has slept well. There is a soft bed beneath him, and a warmth in his bones that makes him murmur as he stirs. More than just his mind shifts towards lazy wakefulness, a smirk tugging at his lips as he realises someone is beside him, radiating heat. Their arm holds him close – a very definitely male, well-muscled arm. He sighs gently, savouring it, pushing just that little bit closer to comfort, to the inviting smell of sweat and musk that fills his senses and warms his blood. He’s still dressed, which is a shame, but whoever he is with is too close for casual, too intent in the way they hold him, and that little smile grows as Jaskier thinks about the wonderful morning opening up before him, his arousal flourishing, hot and hard. Something good happened last night, something he intends to repeat, whatever it was, and he presses in again with a murmur, thinking of all the ways he wants to enjoy his bedfellow—

—only to stop dead in his tracks.

His sharp inhale draws with it the scent of Geralt’s skin, his whole body convulsing into deathly rigidity as he simultaneously realises both who he is with and why the fabric against his cock feels like _that_. Someone has just set fire to him, and he can’t move.

Please, Melitele, no.

Face plastered to Geralt’s side, cock hard and heart racing, Jaskier prays with every shred of his being that Geralt is still asleep. He daren’t move, lest he wake the Witcher. The mortification is so great he is sure for many, many heartbeats that it will kill him.

It doesn’t. Geralt remains, mercifully, asleep, and bit by bit Jaskier manages to relax – he has to relax. He needs to breathe, to ease away somehow, to plot his next course of action. The arm around him is solid, an unintentional embrace that’s as annoyingly immovable as the man himself. At least, with careful adjustments, he can breathe in the cool air of the room, and with it a little of last night comes back to him. His fever is gone, perhaps burnt from him by whatever stupidity made him…

Yeah. Yeah, he really did that, didn’t he? The crusted mess in his pants is enough to inform him that there is far too much reality to the dream he thought he’d had than the can take. He has the lingering, vague impression of little more than a solid wall of Geralt-smelling delight, the hangover from it more feelings of warmth and need than any finer details. It was apparently enough to fetch him off while he slept, unaware of the fool he was making of himself. At least Geralt slept through it, none the wiser, because that is one thing Jaskier absolutely could not face. He’d rather take on a sewer full of drowners.

His greatest concern now, he knows, is to extricate himself from his current predicament. He desires a bath, and laundered clothes. Food too, and perhaps enough privacy to take care of his state of arousal which, in spite of his mortification, remains persistent. Never let it be said that is not virile. He bites back a huff at the almost ironic unfamiliarity of the situation; it’s not that he’s never had to slip away from a sleeping bed partner before – far, far from it – no, the bizarre aspect to this is that he doesn’t want to go. But he has to. With a pause, he assesses the situation again, the arm locked around him, the warmth radiating from Geralt’s body, the hardness of his—

Sweet Melitele, he has to get out of here. Now.

Jaskier files away the revelation that witchers are just as prone to morning wood as the next man for later, for a time when he’s not on the verge of panicking with the need to avoid being caught in such a compromising position. His best chance, he decides, is to roll, to try to slip from Geralt’s arms that way. Willing his heart to quit its attempts to escape his chest, Jaskier shifts carefully, finding, to his relief, that Geralt’s hold gives a little. It’s a small amount, but it’s a start. He turns his body a little more, holding his breath, waiting, moving just a little.

He should have known it would be impossible to escape without Geralt waking. His heart sinks as he feels the shift in Geralt’s breathing, the exhale that caresses his cheek. With a low murmur, Geralt rouses, muscles tightening for the briefest of moments and holding Jaskier where he is as he opens his stupidly gorgeous golden eyes and looks right at him.

“Jaskier…”

No. Nope. No way. He’s not sticking around for this conversation. The decision to lie back and play it cool doesn’t even occur to him until it’s far too late, his feet catching in the sheet as he tries to propel himself away. He doesn’t get far. Entangled feet aside, Geralt moves with a speed utterly unfair for someone who has just woken. His palm catches Jaskier’s chest, pushing, pinning him down as Geralt holds himself just a little above Jaskier.

Jaskier needs to be far, far away. The touch radiates heat, searing into him, causing fire to spread through his body, and that _look_ Geralt is giving him causes his lungs to fail, drawing in a feeble, stuttering gasp of surprise. He can’t name the expression Geralt wears – doesn’t dare to try – and he simply stares up, dumbfounded, speared to the bed by the ridiculous notion that Geralt is somehow waiting for something, wanting it.

The foolish fantasy passes. Geralt’s expression shifts to something far more familiar, a shadow falling back into place. He withdraws his hand from Jaskier’s chest, pulling away.

“I will have someone draw you a bath.”

He’s standing before Jaskier can gather himself, pulling his shirt on as Jaskier manages to panic his way into sitting up. “No, it’s—” he tries to protest, before realising he’s picked the wrong angle of attack. Or rather, defence. “I can manage. I’ll go.”

As he leans over his own side of the bed, groping for his boots, he hears Geralt give what sounds like a derisive snort. Jaskier turns towards him, intending to defend his ability to request his own bath (and breakfast) with perhaps a little too much vehemence, but the witcher is already walking away.

“Hey!”

The door snicks shut, leaving Jaskier staring disbelievingly after Geralt.

Another moment passes, and he crumples, groaning and twisting, falling face-first against the bed in despair. A bad idea. He lands squarely on fabric that smells of Geralt, and is still warm with him. It fills his senses, almost mocking Jaskier for his torment. And oh!, how he is tormented. He’s still hard and aching, unable to quiet the racing of his heart or the raging of his need. His hips shift, grinding against the mattress, and he moans when it feels far better than it ought to. It’s still not enough though. He gathers the pillow to him, hugging it and burying his face in it, inhaling as he ruts against the friction he can find. Still not enough, not enough…

He could, with more time, find satisfaction. As it is, with his heart still beating faster than it ever ought to, all he succeeds in doing is making a greater mess of himself. He stops with a poorly bitten back whine of frustration, uncomfortably aware that Geralt will come back too soon, and instead sets about trying to right his clothing. And his hair. Fuck, his hair badly needs a wash, and he knows his face is tellingly flushed, his now painfully erect prick barely hidden while he’s sitting on the bed. Even if Geralt suddenly loses nearly all his ability to see, he won’t miss it when Jaskier stands up. Fuck. For a moment Jaskier contemplates climbing out the window and fleeing, which wouldn’t be one of his finest moments but it is probably preferable to the embarrassment he knows is coming. Perhaps he can pretend he’s still sick.

And then it’s too late to do anything, because Geralt is slipping into the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“The bath is ready when you are.”

“Right,” Jaskier makes himself say. “Good. Um, you know, I’m still feeling a bit…”

He catches the way Geralt’s gaze settles heavily on him, a brow raising. He’s not buying it.

“Clothes, clothes,” Jaskier takes to muttering, looking around so he doesn’t have to look at the statue of a man judging him. “Have you seen my doublet? Ah, there it is. Good. Needs laundered, you know. I haven’t felt this dirty since… well, last week, but that’s no excuse to wear dirty clothes now, is it? Well, maybe it is for you, but not for the more civilised amongst us. Be a good fellow and pass me my satchel, will you?”

Hiding behind a torrent of words, Jaskier slips from the bed, facing away from Geralt as he stoops to collect his doublet. With only the ornate fabric as a shield, he realises Geralt, unsurprisingly, hasn’t bothered to do as Jaskier asked.

“Really, Geralt, it’s as if you have no love for me at all,” he chastises, and then chokes a little on his words. Armed now with both his doublet and bag, he clears his throat and tries to hold his tongue as he heads for the door. “Well I can’t say I won’t be long. Enjoy your morning!”

The fact Geralt follows him out into the corridor is… confusing, to say the least.

“What in the world are you up to?” Jaskier demands, watching as Geralt secures the door.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re following me.”

That seems to amuse Geralt. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, eyes fixed on Jaskier in the gloom. “You dislike being followed?”

Of all the times for Geralt to decide to get even for all the years Jaskier has been following him – not that Geralt truly dislikes it, otherwise Jaskier knows he would have been abandoned or eviscerated long ago – this has to be the worst. “I’m going for a bath,” he points out.

Geralt’s shoulders lurch into a shrug. “I need a bath too. I smell.”

Well yes, he does, but not in the way Geralt seems to think, and being reminded of that fact is torture of the sweetest kind. Jaskier’s cock twitches as he remembers _exactly_ how Geralt smells, and he clenches his jaw, turning away. There’s no real reason to insist on bathing alone, but he _needs_ to. No excuse comes to mind though.

“Well, I’m going first,” is the best he can manage, before walking off. He’s painfully aware of the fact that Geralt is very definitely following him.

The bath is laid out in its own room, close to a strong fire which heats both the room and two cauldrons of water. A basin and pile of linens are set to the side of the hearth. Already full, the copper tub is so inviting that, for a moment, Jaskier forgets his predicament. He groans appreciatively, making directly for it, dropping his doublet and bag to test the water. “Fuck, yes.”

Somewhere behind him, Geralt is following him across the threshold and closing the door. Jaskier uses the brief opportunity he has to peel his clothes off and scramble less than gracefully into the waiting water. It closes hotly around him, too clear to really hide much but infinitely better than being naked and exposed.

“I need this,” he sighs, sinking down until his feet hit the bottom side of the bath, his knees bent. He lets himself slip under, hiding himself entirely for a moment. It’s when he resurfaces, water running down his face and dripping from his hair, that he realises his error. He hides his face in his hands for half a heartbeat as he moves to push his hair back from his eyes, and then drapes his arms over the edge of the bath, making it look like he intended to laze rather than get clean all along.

Geralt, because he’s Geralt, doesn’t buy it. He watches Jaskier with an unnervingly astute gaze which, thankfully, makes no attempt to drift to where Jaskier’s hardened prick is far from concealed. “Where is your soap?”

“In my bag.”

“Hm.”

“Well,” Jaskier argues, “I did say I intend to take my time. You’re going to have to wait your turn.”

“Or,” Geralt answers, his voice little more than a dangerously pleasing rumble, “you could do what you came here to.”

He walks over, and Jaskier swallows thickly, suddenly very much understanding how it feels to be prey stalked by a hunter. In spite of needing to, he can’t look away. He watches as Geralt comes within touching distance, bending down to take Jaskier’s bag in hand. He retrieves from it the soap Jaskier favours, holding it out.

“Here.”

It takes more effort than it ought to for Jaskier to prompt his limbs into working. The movement is jerky, an awkward snatch which, thankfully, doesn’t end with him dropping the soap. It doesn’t end with Geralt pulling away though. The witcher remains where he is, watching Jaskier.

And then, because the heavens have decided to punish him, Geralt glances down. There’s no way he misses the defiant jut of Jaskier’s prick, his hardness unmistakable. Jaskier feels the water heat as if it’s about to boil, his cheeks aflame as that golden gaze slowly raises back up, pinning him with its weight.

“Must you do that?” Jaskier manages to push out, no air left in his lungs. “Loom? It’s very off putting, you know. I suppose it must be because you’re so unimaginably old that you’ve forgotten, but it’s not polite to stare at a man as he bathes.”

There’s a breathless quality to Geralt’s voice. “So why do I always find you staring at me?”

“I do not!”

Jaskier doesn’t stare. When they’re not talking eye to eye, as all men do, he sometimes steals glances, yes, or catches the sight of Geralt in varying states of undress out the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t stare. He appreciates at most, letting his thoughts and attention wander, to linger a little while, because who wouldn’t take an opportunity to admire Geralt?

He doesn’t stare.

Geralt clearly doesn’t believe him.

Jaskier turns his head away, sitting up and wetting the soap, intending to finish his bath and retreat to the bedroom while Geralt takes his turn. At least then he’ll know he has some privacy to take care of his only marginally flagging cock. The persistence of his arousal is beyond embarrassing now, and the betrayal of his body in full view of Geralt is something he’ll never forgive. At least Geralt is walking away, retreating to a somewhat less threatening distance. Jaskier hastily scrubs at his hair, lathering it and washing the buildup of dirt away. Brushing falling water from his eyes, he peers down at the rippling water, frowning at the enduring proof of something he’s really rather not dwell on with Geralt still in the room. He must be cursed.

Across from the foot of the bath, Geralt shifts.

Definitely cursed.

Jaskier looks up to get an eyeful of nothing _that_ out of the ordinary, but to him the sight of Geralt pulling off his shirt is akin to the sort of religious experiences priests and priestesses talk of and imply he’ll never understand. It’s them who don’t understand. Jaskier realises, in a distant, absent sort of way, that he’s staring again, and tries to swallow his heart back down from where it’s lodged in his throat. Geralt has turned a little, and stands almost side-on, his head turned away as he loosely folds his shirt. His hair frames his face, hiding it from view and, by extension, hiding Jaskier’s gaze from discovery. He’s not sure he could look away even if he was caught staring, because the pale expanse of well-muscled chest is more inviting than all the wine, women and coin in the world. He wishes he’d savoured the moment he’d had earlier, the closeness and warmth that fortune won’t bless him with again.

As he’s always done over the years, Jaskier admires from afar, although the wanting is unfairly bad today. It’s almost enough to make him whimper, to wish that he had—

Oh sweet Melitele.

He suddenly has no air left to breathe. Fully formed thought escapes him as he watches Geralt unfastening his pants, sliding his fingers beneath the waistband at his hips and pushing the fabric down. He bends for a moment, stepping out of the garment, and then stands, completely naked, his attention turning back towards Jaskier.

Jaskier has no idea if the expression he wears is as unhinged as he feels. His gaze is transfixed on Geralt’s cock, his mind stuttering like a broken note as he realises Geralt is still hard too. His cock is… quite something. It’s as generously proportioned as the rest of his body, flushed at the tip and standing proud. Geralt makes no move to hide himself, and Jaskier forgets how to look away until he realises Geralt has taken a step towards him.

His head bows as if struck, his chest too tight to breathe as his blood races wildly through his veins. “I’m not done yet,” he points out.

“Hn,” is all the reply he gets, Geralt adding nothing more as he crosses to the side of the bath and crouches with unfair grace. It’s Jaskier’s turn to be watched, to be stared at and studied, and he wishes he weren’t trapped in a tub with Geralt now leaning against it, his arms crossed over the rim, the fire crackling behind him and sunlight falling through open shutters. He looks so unfairly handsome, so indescribably beautiful, and Jaskier is tormented by it, caught when he glances up and cannot look away, feeling as if a beast has torn him apart to expose his insides.

Geralt holds his gaze as he moves, warmth in those soft, golden eyes as rough, calloused fingers slip beneath the water and curl around Jaskier’s cock. It makes him convulse, his back arching as he cries out at the touch, blinded by it for a moment. “Geralt!”

Geralt’s hand moves, offering friction, and Jaskier feels himself shatter like the finest porcelain. He struggles to catch his breath, to retain any semblance of control over his own body as his whole existence reforms around that one point of contact.

“W-what are you…?”

“Should I stop?”

He hears himself whine at that, his eyes falling closed as he tries to process what’s happening, the fact that Geralt is touching him, jerking him off. “No. No, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”

His head tilts towards Geralt as he tries to catch the scent of him beyond the soft fragrance of the soap still clutched in his own hand. He should tell Geralt to stop, because as he focuses on the warm, earthy smell of the witcher’s body he knows there’s no way he’s going to last long enough not to embarrass himself. Or, embarrass himself more. He can’t hold back the breathless whimpers and moans, the way his body reacts with each stroke of Geralt’s hand, the way his eyelids flutter closed and he murmurs: “Don’t you dare fucking stop, oh fuck!”

Geralt hums in answer, the sound making Jaskier look up and meet his gaze. Geralt studies him with warmth, with interest, his expression softer than Jaskier has ever seen, a little undone in the way his lips are parted, breath coming quicker, his gaze darker than before. He’s leaning forward, absent any signs of disgust or contempt as he watches Jaskier falling apart at his touch.

“Geralt, don’t…” Jaskier breathes, and it’s the last thing he says before all the little moments that have come before become too much. He gasps, eyes squeezing shut, as he climaxes with a low, faltering moan, his body singing with tension that leaves him with a sigh. His head rests heavily against the head of the bath, his chest rising and falling, senses pleasantly hazy as he relaxes back into the warmth of the water.

Slowly, Geralt withdraws. Jaskier can hear his breathing, slow for a human, fast for a witcher.

“G’ me a moment,” he pleads, sighing again, enjoying the blissful absence of tension. “I’ll just…”

The soap is heavy and slippery in his hand. Reluctantly, Jaskier admits to himself that he ought to finish cleaning up. He takes his time in sitting forward, his movements like honey. To his side, Geralt stands, moving back to where he left his clothes. Slowly scrubbing himself clean, Jaskier watches as Geralt gathers the bundle and deposits it with Jaskier’s things. He’s still hard, still striding around the room as if being completely naked in front of someone else is normal. Perhaps it is. Jaskier looks down at the water slowly clouding with soap, wondering if there’s a way to ask what the fuck just happened.

“Still want to bathe?” he asks instead.

“Mm.”

He nods. “Right.”

It feels odd to be so quiet, and yet Jaskier has no idea what to fill the silence with. Unable to think of anything to say, he hums instead, keeping the melody almost under his breath. It works, though. He can almost pretend this is normal, that he hasn’t just had one of the most earth-shattering experiences of his life in a cosy little wash room in an inn who knows where.

He decides, for Geralt’s sake, to save shaving until he’s out of the bath. There’s a basin in the corner that will do, and he stands on somewhat shaky legs, waiting for the worst of the water to run back down into the bath.

“All yours,” he says, stepping onto flagstones that are warmed by the heat spilling from the fire. “Unless you want the water changed?”

Geralt shakes his head. “It will do.”

Jaskier bites his tongue, supposing that Geralt often ends up covered in far worse things than a little watered down spend, and circles the bath to retrieve his knife and strop from his bag. For a time, he loses himself in the rhythm of preparing a basin, filling it with warming water from the fire and lathering soap against his skin. He watches Geralt sigh and all but melt into the bath, and wordlessly offers up his soap to the witcher before returning to sharpen his blade. His humming only stops as he concentrates on shaving, methodically scraping away the stubble that’s grown until his skin is smooth again. 

Done, he looks towards Geralt again, a tune starting up and then dying on his lips when he realises what Geralt is doing. One arm slung over the bath, water dripping from his fingers to the floor, the other moves with a slow, unmistakable rhythm, his hand just out of sight below the water.

“Do you, um…”

Jaskier struggles to swallow, gesturing vaguely with his blade as Geralt glances up at him, before making a choice and setting it down. He wipes his skin down with a linen cloth, crossing back over to the bath and kneeling.

“I could…” he offers, disappointed by the way Geralt becomes wary at his proximity, tensing at his words. He hasn’t come this far not to try, though. “...you know… Return the favour. If you like.”

The moments slip by, Jaskier finding himself unable to meet Geralt’s gaze.

“Nevermi—”

“—Okay.”

He looks up, unsure of what he’s just heard. His brain is slow to process the sound, the acceptance.

The moment it registers, he sighs with relief, grinning. “Yeah?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Geralt breathes.

“Like what?” Jaskier asks, his hand slipping beneath the water. The backs of his fingers brush against Geralt’s hip, and he traces down to his thigh, caressing the powerful mass of muscle as he watches Geralt’s reaction. The witcher’s eyes almost flutter closed as Jaskier strokes up the inside of his thigh, taking his time in wrapping his hand around the base of Geralt’s cock. “Like I want to do this?”

“Jaskier…”

It doesn’t sound like much of a warning. Geralt’s voice falters, and Jaskier crows with pride as he strokes the other man’s cock and sees the tension he fights to keep abandoning him. “Like I want to touch you?” Jaskier presses. “I don’t think you realise how incredible you look.”

Jaskier isn’t grinning now. He’s too busy drinking in all the details of this moment, the hot, heavy weight of Geralt’s cock in his hand, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes fall shut and his head tilts back, exposing his throat just a tantalising fraction.

“Fuck, Geralt,” he breathes, shuddering. He wets his lips, too overwhelmed to find his voice as he lets the soft, lower part of his thumb rub over the head of Geralt’s cock and Geralt’s foot slips against the tub, a gasp betraying how vulnerable he is like this. “Fuck.”

Geralt visibly swallows a moan, shivering.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do this, how many times I’ve imagined what it would be like.” He surrenders the rhythm he’s been building, letting his hand caress Geralt’s thigh again, fingers pressing in firmly before his thumb rubs gentle circles there. “Did you imagine it too?”

He knows, even without a response, that the answer is no. The grunt he gets is noncommittal, and rewardingly distracted as Jaskier slides his hand up to cup Geralt’s balls, teasing them and coaxing them down.

“Is this the only time I’m going to get?” he wonders, leaning against the bath and watching the shudder that ripples through Geralt’s body as he takes him in hand again. “Because once isn’t enough, not for all the things I’d love to do to you. Would you like to know what they are, or shall I show you? Will you let me?”

He draws a shuddering breath, feeling his own cock stir again. “I dreamt of you, you know.”

To his surprise, the corner of Geralt’s lip twitches upward. “I know.”

He’s back to blushing again, flushed with embarrassment but determined not to succumb to it again. “Weren’t you tempted? You could have had me, you know. You could have had me at any time, I wouldn’t have said no.”

Geralt hums, and his hips twitch as Jaskier teases the head of his cock again, filling him with delight at the effect he has on the powerful man.

“You pulled away.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to place the reply, to understand what’s being said, and that the hand that pinned him to the bed had been to keep him there, that the strangeness in Geralt’s tone has been longing. Geralt meets his gaze evenly, his pupils a little blown, lips still parted.

“I—”

Geralt shivers, tilting his head back again, and Jaskier quickly pushes it all aside for later.

“I like you like this,” he murmurs instead. “I like seeing you like this, feeling you like this.” His hand moves smoothly now, stroking with a steady rhythm that seems just right if the faint tremor in Geralt’s thigh is to be believed. “Who knew you could be even more handsome than I already thought you to be?”

“Jas…”

The hitch in his own breathing takes him by surprise, and he squeezes his thighs together around his hardening cock. “I like it when you call me that, I love the way you say my name. Fuck, even just your voice, even if you’re yelling.”

The huff Geralt gives is probably supposed to be something approaching a laugh, but it’s lost beneath a moan, and Jaskier flushes with satisfaction, repeating the action. “Don’t,” Geralt breathes, but the only weight Jaskier can sense within the word is a plea. Geralt’s body goes beautifully taut, his back arching and chest shuddering with the effort to breathe as Jaskier presses his advantage.

He didn’t expect it to be over so soon. A sympathetic moan falls from Jaskier’s lips, his cock twitching as Geralt’s pulses hotly in his hand, the tangible rush of release leaving him. He knows he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying – and failing – to describe the sheer perfection of the moment, the beauty of the way Geralt pants, just for a moment, and shudders with completion. Jaskier coaxes him through it, milking every last drop of satisfaction that’s to be had from his body, and then loosens his hand, feeling very, very much like he’s been witness to something unspeakably rare and invaluable.

They breathe in silence, moments slipping by until Geralt gives a sigh, the sound somehow signalling the end. “Is there a towel?”

Jaskier withdraws to fetch the largest one he can find from the pile. “I don’t think they plan for patrons of your stature.”

There’s the usual grunt, and Geralt is hoisting himself from the bath, everything on show for Jaskier who doesn’t even think to hide the fact he’s looking, and very much appreciating the view.

“Wait, where’s my soap?” he realises.

Geralt shrugs, taking the towel. “Somewhere in there.”

“You brute! Do you have any idea how much that cost me!?”

Still, as he fishes for it in the dirty bathwater, Jaskier doesn’t really mind. It takes a short while to find, because his attention is steadfastly fixed on Geralt’s ass as the other man dries off.

“I need breakfast,” he says, “and clean clothes. Did you find out if they’ll send out to a laundry?”

“Probably.”

Jaskier pats the soap dry as best he can, and packs his things away, taking the carefully rolled shirt from his bag and slipping it on. It goes down to just above his knees, at least, so will do for what he hopes will be a brief trip to find someone who can fetch breakfast and deal with their laundry. He also has to hope no one notices his half hard cock, but today he’s become adept at using clothing to shield himself. Geralt has surrendered all his clothes, and now wears only the thin towel precariously secured around his waist. There’s no way he can appear in front of anyone but Jaskier looking like that, so Jaskier will have to go.

“I take it you’re hungry too?”

“Mm.”

“Right, well. I’ll see you back in our room? Take this for me, will you?”

He holds out his bag, but rather than taking it, Geralt steps into his space, holding his gaze.

“Um… yes?”

One hand closes around the bag, while the other comes up to cup Jaskier’s face, calloused fingers gently stuttering against his flushed skin. He falters at the touch, his knees suddenly far weaker than they ought to be.

“Geralt?”

His answer is a kiss. It’s firmly pressed, warm and welcome, against his lips, stealing his breath and thoughts away. He responds reflexively, pushing just a little into the touch, humming contentedly as he realises how soft Geralt’s lips are.

“Oh,” he murmurs as they pull apart, smiling as he looks at Geralt and sees something new in his eyes, something carefully held, like hope he doesn’t dare to acknowledge too closely. “Okay, yeah, I like that. I…”

Geralt does it again, and this time Jaskier leans after him when he pulls away too soon, too teasing.

“I really like that.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Geralt says, his fingers softly falling from Jaskier’s jaw and he takes a step back. “Don’t be long.”

As if Jaskier would ever take a moment longer than absolutely necessary to return to Geralt’s side.

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, Geralt was awake the whole time.)
> 
> Please don't be shy to comment if you enjoyed this! I've already started another geraskier fic, although it's a ridiculous, self-indulgent AU I started instead of doing my very overdue uni work (which I now definitely have to do), so I'm not sure if there's really an audience for it. I might try posting a chapter anyway though!


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